All That Glitters
by I-AM-SiriusLOCKED
Summary: Wilhelmina Turnip was a legacy, the daughter of a legend. Unfortunately, nobody had thought to tell her this until now. Being sent to the Bandits' Guild would be worry enough, but something has the highwaymen scared. "Your money or your life" is no longer mutually exclusive. There's an assassin teaching lessons. And it's only a matter of time before the ghost kills again.
1. Chapter 1

To the outside observer, humanity might be seen to be discernible from its peers only by its countless bad habits. Etiquette, a belief in justice and cosmic harmony, alcoholism... personkind is unique in these respects. Another one is thinking that the darker, nastier kind of crimes are, somehow, _romantic,_ maybe even _heroic._ This tends to get humanity in a lot of trouble, from time to time. Like moths flocking to a flame...

It was the sort of night that birthed ghost stories, and it settled like a shroud over the cart track. The track deserved better than to connect a hamlet to a town, really, what with its rolling views of the plains and history-worn ruts running in smooth parallel lines that train tracks could only ever achieve. It was the sort of road a mother could be proud of, but for some reason it was in the middle of nowhere, serving only to ferry supplies and the occasional cow making a break for it after having discovered how few beans it was worth. But at night, it may as well have been going from nowhere to a different nowhere, much farther away and through several hazardous terrains and so forth –

"Halt! Stand and deliver!"

The carriage clattered to a halt, and from outside of it there came the thump of the driver being turned unconscious via the cunning technique of hitting him very hard over the head. Inside the vehicle Lord Shrimp exhaled, an act that took up a great deal of time considering the largeness of his lungs and indeed all other parts of him, and stuck his head out of the window. "Let's get this over and done with, then," he said shortly, "I have places to be and I paid extra for minimalism, I think you'll…" he suddenly became very aware of the flintlock pistol trained directly between his eyebrows. It was _amazing_ , how quickly something like that could grab your attention.

Eyes like amber gleamed at him from beneath black velvet that melted into the midnight air. "Hello," said a silky voice, "could you get on your knees and beg, please? I'd very much appreciate it."

"But…" Lord Shrimp spluttered, whose good breeding ensured he never let go of a point that favoured him, "but I specifically paid for no firearms, I think you'll find on this here receipt, young man, that –"

It was too dark to see the red of the blood, but the sound of the crossbow firing and the sudden fluttering of birds taking flight made it all too easy to imagine. Lord Shrimp shuddered and climbed out of the carriage, away from the carnage, and stared in shock as the shadowy figure stripped his recently vacated body of everything worth anything.

"Hardly the sort of last words a man could wish for," he said, as the surrounding landscape began to get hazy. "Always wanted something a little more witty, for myself."

AT LEAST YOU DIED AS YOU HAVE LIVED.

Lord Shrimp turned around, and beheld the figure standing beside him, its robe making the black of his murderer's look watery by comparison. Death grinned at him. It was only to be expected.

"And how would that be, pray?" Lord Shrimp asked, puffing up as much as a ghost could.

SCRUPULOUS TO THE EXTREME. The blue-gleaming blade rose, and sliced through the air with an echoing whisper. THAT BEING SAID, SCRUPLES MAY NOT DO YOU MUCH GOOD NOW.

"Why?" Lord Shrimp's voice already sounded distant, even to himself. The haze was encroaching everything, now.

I BELIEVE YOU ARE ABOUT TO FIND OUT.

As the ghost of Lord Shrimp faded, Death stood still and watched as the other black-clad figure mounted its black-clad horse, reared it up against the massive full moon, and galloped off down the track until the darkness welcomed it into invisibility.

INTERESTING, said Death, A PERFORMER TO AN ABSENT CROWD. VERY ROMANTIC. HMM. Skeletal digits drummed against the scythe with a sound remarkably akin to dice on a gambling table. THIS CAN ONLY END… UNUSUALLY. OR, PERHAPS, NOT.

Death shook his head a little, then walked over to a massive white horse that glowed in the night and saddled himself with surprising grace. The white horse kicked up into the pitch-black sky, and galloped until its colour became indistinguishable from the countless stars.

Things, as they say, were about to be afoot.

%

"But I don't _want_ to be a witch! I don't see why anyone _would_!"

Nanny Ogg sipped from her cup of tea and did her best to act like she wasn't listening to the argument. Ramtops cottages were built to last, but interior walls were often an afterthought for those that didn't have to occasionally bring animals in from the harsher nights, and as such tended to be thin. "Odd weather we're having recently," she said to her companion, just loud enough that the arguers would hear, and know she was making an effort to show she wasn't paying attention to them. That was just manners, after all. "Hardly any fish, this last month."

"Hmm." Granny Weatherwax sat so stiffly she put the poker to shame and sipped the last of her tea from her saucer.

"Hope it clears up before Hogswatchnight," Nanny continued, edging her chair two inches closer to the adjacent room.

"It ain't yet harvest, Gytha."

"Does good to think ahead," Nanny responded absently, and then gave up. "She says it's all wiping bums and tricking old people, Esme."

"What is?"

"The craft!"

Granny carefully tipped some more tea into her saucer. "Well," she said, "she ain't wrong."

The two witches took a moment to listen to fresh developments in the argument.

"… The younger witches are bringing in a whole new age of it, I'm sure you'd love it if you gave it a chance –"

"But I don't _want_ to give it a chance! It's stupid, mother!" The speaker had the shrill inflection to her voice that hinted that very soon someone was going to start crying, and it was now just a battle to see who would break first. "It's all mooning over star charts and getting starry-eyed at the moon, and pretending to summon demons! They don't actually _do_ anything!"

Nanny sighed heavily, and emptied the last of the teapot into her cup. "You'd think she'd be thrilled," she said to her friend, "seein' as it's in her blood, and all. Old Mother Marrow was a damn good soothsayer, if I do say so meself. Could soothe the arse off a cow, that woman."

"But it ain't the only thing that's in her blood," Granny said, "is it, Gytha?"

Nanny shifted in her seat. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Mighty surprisin', considering it were you who told _me_ in the first place. Great big man on a horse comes galloping through, my, I'd say Gytha Ogg's the first to know about it."

"He had a lovely saddle," Nanny replied as the mists of nostalgia welcomed again, "all the ladies were swooning over it. His name preceded him and, as they say, he dint disappoint." They both glanced at the door. "Never even stayed the week, mind. Not that he needed to. Got all his business done overnight, so I heard."

"That's disgustin'."

"That's highwaymen for yer," Nanny said as she dragged herself back to the present, "nothing more than perfumed horse apples, to my mind. I hear they calls 'em dandies, down in the city."

"Fancy name for a horse apple."

"I was talkin' about the bandits," Nanny said, "dandies and fops, the lot of 'em."

"What about your little friend? Casserole?"

"Casanunda." She _knew_ Esme got it wrong on purpose. If Nanny had had half the life experience and double the modesty she did, she would have blushed. "Nothing wrong with a bit off foppishness, from time to time," she said, "with the right seasonings."

Granny's lip curled downwards, and Nanny grinned. Besides, it sounded like the argument was drawing to a close, and sure enough the door connecting the tiny kitchen to the smaller parlour opened.

Sensibility Turnip could have done a lot worse, or at least that's what people always said. She was a proper goffik beauty, with lips as red as apples of the non-equine kind and a great deal of shiny black hair that, nowadays, was streaked with grey and tied back from a full, albeit thinning, face. She had been a real stunner, back in the day, and what with the gel's father everyone expected her only daughter to turn out the same.

Unfortunately, nobody had told Wilhelmina about this. She slunk into the room behind her mother with a face that had been built backwards from what was always either a scowl or a pout, and her dress hung off her frame like it was on the cheaper kind of coathanger. She folded her arms and sulked as her mother, who still looked slightly flushed, wrung her hands and approached the witches.

"I'm ever so sorry," she said, "but Mina doesn't – she isn't – she won't become a witch. I've tried to convince her, but…"

Granny Weatherwax held up a hand, and the woman fell silent. "In that case," she said, "I shan't hope to change her mind. Come, Gytha. We have other people to be a-seein', and I won't waste no more of these nice people's time."

Wilhelmina's eyes widened. "You're just going to _go_?" she asked, "that's really it?"

"You've made your opinions quite clear, young madam," Granny said firmly as she opened the front door. "I hopes you enjoy whatever you ends up doing."

The door slammed behind them and Nanny bobbed after Granny as she strode down the garden path. But, Nanny noticed, it was quite a slow stride. She started to count to ten under her breath, but got lost and just waited for what she knew was going to happen.

They made it to the broomsticks, and Nanny swung her leg over as Granny gave hers an experimental poke. Neither of them looked back, because they weren't _expecting_ anything to happen, oh no. But still, Nanny listened so hard her ears popped for the sounds of running.

"At least there's a hat," she said, "every respectable pro-fesh-un's got a hat, them's the rules of the world." She watched as Granny gripped the stick in both hands and prepared to start running up and down with a lot more consideration than usual. "It's a triangle too, even if it is sideways. Could be worse, I s'pose – "

" _Wait!_ "

Wilhelmina Turnip pounded down the garden path and staggered to a halt in front of them. "You know something," she said, "don't you? About my father. I heard you talking while me and Ma were arguing."

 _Ooh_ , Nanny thought, _she's a good one._ "What do you know about him, gel?"

"Nothing," Wilhelmina replied, "well, not much. I know his surname was Turnip and I know he married Ma, then took off."

Granny scrutinised the girl closely, who stuck her chin out and took it with barely a wavering. Not many people could do that. "What's the farthest you've ever travelled, Wilhelmina Turnip?" she asked, and the child looked rather taken aback by the question.

"I went to Slice for the market, once. It wasn't as exciting as people made out, though, it was just the same as Bad Ass but with twice the cows and the people had more teeth."

Granny grinned. Behind her, Nanny shuddered.

"I think," she said, "now's is a good time for a brief excursion to Ankh-Morpork. What says you, Gytha?"

"What? But you _hate_ travelli – oh, right. Yes," she said, "right time of year for it. Any place in particular?"

"One," said Granny, "the Bandit's Guild."

Wilhelmina's jaw dropped.

 **A/N all I have to say about this is that I have no excuse to be publishing something new when I have like eight million things active and that it's going to most likely have very,** ** _very_** **slow updates.**


	2. Chapter 2

Wilhelmina's case consisted of a spare dress that looked just like the one she was wearing except with three more holes in it, two pairs of extra socks and underwear, her diary, a small wood carving of an elephant she had bought at the market (or at least, the man had _said_ it was an elephant), a letter from her mother that was really rather boring, a package wrapped in brown paper and _a letter from her father_. She turned it over and over in the stagecoach as the old witches bickered, and wondered whether or not to open it. Then she opened it.

 _To whatever child I may have had a hand in creating,_

 _So it would seem you are following in my prestigious footfteps, due to the fact that you are reading thif letter and not any one of the fourteen others I had prepared in event of various other career choices, unexpected deaths and/or debts, revolution, or apockalyptick event. I am verry proud of you, and I am sure your mother if too. Enclofed is a small gift which will enfure a warm Welcome into the Guild of Banditry and Highwaymen, Highwaymen being an arkaic term that also include Women, Dwarf and Other Mifcellaneous Peoples. I am sure that you will make me and your mother proude, and lament only that I cannot be there too behold it myfelf. But my reafons for that, my child, if is story for another Time._

 _Your loving, if abfent Father,_

The signature was full of swirls that made it impossible to read, a real _gentleman's_ signature. A gentlemen, it appeared, with a lisp so strong it manifested in his writing, but that couldn't be helped. Wilhelmina opened the package.

"I have always thought," she heard Granny say, somewhere in the background, "that some things cannot be learnt in classrooms."

A sliver of midnight slithered out of the brown paper onto her lap, softer than anything she had ever felt before. _Velvet_ , she thought, _wow._ It was a long strip about the length of her arm, that widened a little in the middle where two holes had been cut out.

"Coo," said Nanny Ogg, peering over her shoulder at the mask. "That looks fancy."

"Give the girl some privacy, Gytha," said Granny, "she deserves to read a letter from her father in peace."

The fabric was so soft it flowed between her fingers. This was his, thought Wilhelmina, he gave it to me and he never even met me. Gosh.

She held it up to her face, where it settled over her eyes like a sudden breath of air. A bony finger tapped her on the shoulder.

"Probably ain't the best place to be trying that, young lady," Granny ordered her, and Wilhelmina stuffed it in the pocket of her apron.

She spent the rest of the journey worrying, her head too full of thoughts to sleep. She knew she was going to learn to be a highwayman, or woman, whatever, and she knew her mother was too upset to go, and that's why she was being taken by the old biddie- old cro- old ladies. Wilhelmina also knew that the Guild was in Ankh-Morpork, and guessed it was run in much the same way the Thieves' Guild was in its business, and like the Assassins' in its training. The former part didn't seem that exciting, really, all the fuss about deposits and exactly _which_ point of the track someone should halt, and whether or not weapons should be used and all that stuff. At the end of all that, Wilhelmina suspected it wouldn't be that much different from witchcraft. And the latter, the academy the Guild housed – well, Granny had already expressed her opinion on that, and she wasn't often wrong.

But still… to think that highwaymanning was in her blood! The way the witches exchanged glances whenever he was mentioned, or rather, people avoided mentioning him, indicated that her father had been famous enough to become notorious, which was _much_ more interesting. But if that was the case, whoever heard of a highwayman called Turnip? It had about as much romance in it as, well, as a whitish root vegetable. Turnips didn't accost people with flintlock pistols on moonlit roads, turnips fell off the back of carts and were declined by pigs. Maybe the Guild would be able to explain it.

The plains had turned to cabbage fields, but the stench of the vegetable was already being drowned out by the acrid aroma of the River Ankh as it crawled – and that was a good word, when it pertained to the Ankh – through the Disc's most infamous, if not notorious, city. According to Granny, the Guild they were headed for was on the outskirts of Ankh-Morpork, rather than the city itself, which she guessed meant it lacked the prestige of the other, more central ones she had heard of.

Wilhelmina wasn't nervous – it was something that she, on principle, had decided not to be. Nerves were something that happened to other people, like when the man had asked Granny to move her sack on the stagecoach seat so he could sit down. She had almost been able to taste his nervousness on the air when Granny had glared at him, before very slowly moving her sack onto her own lap. The man had glanced at the space, up at the witch, back at the space again, and then had decided that a seat on the roof would be better. With a satisfied little smirk, Granny had returned her sack to its original position, leaned her head back and started snoring. That had been a few hours ago, now.

It wasn't that Mina didn't respect the witches; she had a sense of self-preservation, after all. It was just that she couldn't understand why they chose to be little old ladies in tiny cottages, relying on the returned favours of other people to be their only income. There wasn't a doubt in Wilhelmina's mind that Granny could have ruled all of Lancre if she wanted, and done a darn good job of it too – and then there was Nanny, who was perfectly content lording it over her own family, when she had the entire kingdom willing to be under her thumb. And yet they lived in shabby black dresses, and did the nasty jobs none of the men were allowed to do and none of the women wanted, plus more besides.

Not that Wilhelmina wanted to be a queen, or anything like that. But she wanted _something_. Something with _flair._

That was when the decadent, sprawling mess of the Guild of Bandits and Highwaymen unfolded on the horizon, with all the perfect timing of the lower class of comedy characters.

It glittered like the heavy-ringed hand of a man who liked to other people how rich he was, with towers and courtyards and a complex of stables and paddocks that made all of Lancre look like a miniature village. Wilhelmina lifted a hand to her face to stop her jaw from dropping as she stared out of the window at the high white walls and vaulted buildings that, from this distance, looked like they were covered in lace. She was so entranced by the building as they pulled up a few hundred feet from the gate that she didn't notice Nanny standing up and making her way up to the stagecoach driver.

"We'll just be getting off here, young man."

"I'm not stopping here. I'm not thick."

"I assure you, my boy, there are no threats to you _outside_ this coach."

"I… _ulp._ I'll just unhook the step for you and your companions, ma'am."

"There's a lad," Nanny cooed, and Wilhelmina felt Granny grab the collar of her dress and haul her out of the carriage. As soon as her feet hit the dusty road, the stagecoach took off again at top speed.

"Um," said Mina, hefting her bag over her shoulder, "now what?"

"Now we delivers you to your new home, Miss Turnip, like the responsible guardians that we is."

"We'll stay for a bit while you settle, o'course," Nanny added brightly as they started to walk towards the massive gates that jutted out onto the road, "be rude not to take advantage of these nice people's hospitality."

"They haven't offered us any yet," Wilhelmina pointed out.

"They will," Granny said. The gates continued to loom, although, if gates could have felt apprehension, they now would have done. With lack of any visible doorbell, Granny kicked one with her hobnailed boot and the magnificently wrought iron _clangggg_ ed. A few minutes later a very red-faced man in a waistcoat and a wonky powdered wig ran up to them, huffing and puffing.

"Blessings be upon this… place," said Granny, and if it had been anyone else Wilhelmina would have thought the woman had been lost for words at what to call the Guild's… residence.

"What are you doing?" the man panted, "you came up to the gate! You can't just come up to the gate! Nobody _ever_ just _comes up_ to the _gate!_ "

"Well," said Granny, "I can sees how this place is so popular, ha ha. We should like to speak to whoever's in charge, if you please."

"But you can't just – " the man began, and thought better of it. "Not without an appointment, anyway. Madame Dubal's a very busy lady."

"I'm sure she'll be very happy to hear we got her someone to help pick up the slack, then," said Nanny, reaching up to pat Wilhelmina on the shoulder.

The man stared at Wilhelmina, with her case held together with string and her dress made up of more darn than actual fabric, and narrowed his eyes. "No-o-o," he said, "no, I don't think she will. We don't just offer places out, y'see."

"It was promised to her by her father, a highwayman of some repute," said Granny, "or so I hear."

"Sorry, but apprenticeships aren't hereditary. We have Trials in May if you want to come back then."

"We don't," said Granny, "Wilhelmina, show the nice man your letter."

Mina stuck her hand into the pocket of her apron, her fingertips brushing against the impossible softness of the mask, and pulled out the letter from her father instead and handed it to the man through the bars of the cage. She watched his eyes flick from one line to the next, then widen as they reached the signature.

"Oh, bloody hell," he said, "oh, bloody bloody hell." With a shaking hand, he handed Mina back the letter. "Look – it takes three of us and the donkey to open this gate, and I'm the only one on duty, not to mention that Arnold's got the heaves again… there's a gate about two minutes walk that way, I'll open that for you." He disappeared, one hand on his wig to stop it sliding off completely.

"How did you know that would work?" Mina asked, as Granny marched off. The eldest witch didn't reply, and feeling very muddled up the girl followed her.

"I'd just wait for the answers if I was you," Nanny advised her as they trotted along, "saves a lot of bother, and no doubt they'll be tripping over 'emselves to tell you before the end of the day."

"But why won't anyone tell me _now_?" Wilhelmina protested.

"Makes it more excitin', dunnit? And I'd suggest learning to hide that whine in your voice, young madam. It won't do you no good."

Wilhelmina started to say something, but then rather wisely changed her mind. "How long are you going to stay for?" she asked.

"Oh, I suspect we'll be going as soon as they says we're becoming a bother," Nanny said, "we hate to be steppin' on anybody's toes, does Esme and I. O'course, they'll have to send us off in one of those fancy carriages, since we can't expect the stagecoach to come and pick us up. With them plumes and gilderies and everything. But if you wants us to stay longer, just say the word."

"I'll be fine," Wilhelmina said quickly, "honest. I need to learn to cope on my own."

"That's the spirit." They were now outside a much smaller gate embedded in the high stone wall that encircled the Guild; the man was holding it open for them and bowed as Wilhelmina walked past. That was odd, she thought, he didn't even bow to Granny and Nanny, but he did me. The plot, as they say, has become thicker.

The path they followed was hedged on either side too high for Mina to see anything, but after a minute they broke out onto the main driveway, which was wide enough for three carriages with room to spare, made of a surface that didn't shift underfoot and appeared to be made of a classier kind of rock than she was used to, and lined with statues and stone bowls overflowing with the more tasteful kind of flower. It was decadent, far more so than the admittedly wealthier but very refined Assassins' Guild, but stop just shy of being flashy or tasteless. The driveway led up to a massive archway with the motto _NON FURTUM HONOREM_ written in gold over the top, framing the courtyard within. There were a couple of stable boys milling around, leading massive jet black horses in leather so polished it glistened in the cloudy daylight, and the man with the misaligned wig led them to the opposite side, up a short flight of shallow steps to where another page was waiting.

Thus ensued a series of whispered conversations, and the witches and their charge were led through a series of beautiful, shiny and empty rooms until they reached one lined with wood and filled with glass cases, where they were told Madame Dubal would meet them shortly. Mina left the older witches to speculate, and started looking at the guns and ladies' lockets and various shiny things that were enshrined as exhibits in the gallery.

Had it been a fairy tale, there would have been sunlight illuminating the case at the end of the hall. It was filled with polished white busts, each one adorned with a tricorn hat, black eye mask, and a plaque beneath it that said which legend it had belonged to. Had it been a fairy tale, Mina would have seen it first because of some benevolent deux ex machina ensuring she fulfilled, or at least realised, her destiny.

As it was, she noticed the bust first because it was the only one without a mask. The hat was the colour of the deadliest sin, so black it held every colour inside it just out of sight, and it appeared that, unlike the others, the dust was too intimidated to settle on it. It held a single garnet-red feather that drooped lazily over the side, just brushing the gold brocade of the edge that was so well done it was hardly there at all.

Mina's hand drifted instinctively to the mask in her apron pocket as she read the name on the plaque. _Dick Turnip_ , it said, _Lostt at Roade._

It took one hell of a personality to take a name like Dick Turnip and turn it into a myth worthy of a single red feather and the pride of place in the hat cabinet. Wilhelmina felt a sudden surge of pride for a father she had never known, and gripped the mask in her pocket tightly.

"Fascinating, isn't it? How the velvet seems to absorb the light. Fabric like that costs an arm and a leg, not to mention a few other appendages."

Mina spun round and saw the woman who had been stood at her shoulder smiling faintly. She was tall and too beautiful to be described as old, yet too old to be described as beautiful; she wore black, like the witches, but expensive black, and white a white shirt beneath that was so clean it hurt to look at. You didn't get colours that absolute, up in the Ramtops. Golly.

"You must be very proud," said the woman, and Mina nodded mutely. Over the lady's shoulder she saw Granny Weatherwax, who shook her head just a fraction of an inch. Wilhelmina released the mask she had just been about to pull out of her pocket, and shook the woman's hand instead.

"Lady Claudine Dubal," she introduced herself as, with a very faint Quirm accent.

"Um. Wilhelmina Turnip."

"Hmm. We shall have to do something about that," Dubal told her, "the legacy saves the surname, of course, but Wilhelmina is rather an upset. What does your mother call you?"

"Mina."

Madame Dubal sighed. "How… sweet."

"I'm her daughter," Mina retorted before she could stop herself, "what did you expect?"

She heard an intake of breath from one of the pages, and back at the other side of the gallery the two witches smiled faintly. "You are not your mother's daughter here, Miss Turnip," Dubal told her in a voice that could be used to chill champagne, "and, given your upbringing, shall we say, I will forgive you your brief moment of impetuousness." She smiled, graciously, and Wilhelmina bit her tongue. "So. You have come to learn the ways of banditry."

"Yes… Madame."

"Well, then. It appears we have even more to teach you, the daughter of Dick Turnip, than the average student. Ha!" Wilhelmina flinched. "We must start at once." She strode up to where the witches were waiting, and received the infamous Weatherwax stare. "I am afraid there is not much point in you staying, ladies. Rest assured, you shall be provided with food, transportation and immunity from any exchanges on your way."

Granny's lips pursed for a moment. With her hat, she was a little taller than Dubal. "We should like to say goodbye," she said, "in private. 'Tis only right, since we have given the girl our care and love all our lives."

Ha! thought Mina, _haha!_

Dubal nodded, and retreated out of hearing distance. "You listen to me, Wilhelmina Turnip," Granny said in a low voice, "secrets and dazzlin's the only currencies that matter in this place, far more than anything they might steal. Mind you don't give too much of the real you away, but don't become too much of some-person else, either. And hide that gift as best you can. There's a reason your dad gave it unto you, even if you don't quite know it yet. And don't trust the adults."

"What? Why not?"

"Because they're _scared_ , girl. The stagecoach never used to have a problem stopping outside here, those big fancy gates always used to be open wide. No, these people are terrified. You watch your back." Her voice rose. "You wouldn't a'been a terrible witch, me thinks," she said, "that shall do you well in this den of magpies, I don't doubt. Don't forget to write to your mother."

"And make the best of the young men in tights," Nanny added, "always get their name and address." She winked. "I'm sure you'll be fine. It's in your blood, after all."

"Right," said Wilhelmina, "um… thank you. For taking me here. And send my love to my mum."

"You can do that in a letter," Nanny pointed out.

"I know, but…" she was at a loss for what to say; the almanac explained many things, but not the etiquette for situations like this. Still, it was rather a niche one. "I'm… apprehensive."

"Good word, that," said Granny, "always good for makin' nervous people seem clever. And if you're nervous, my girl, find out what's makin' you like that and put an end to it. I shall leave you in the delightful company of Madam Double, then. Farewell."

Wilhelmina fiddled with the cuffs of her dress as they left, and felt the cool hand of Dubal on her shoulder. Legacy or not, this was no place for a girl from Bad Ass to be.


	3. Chapter 3

Wilhelmina stood in front of the mirror next to her new bed and examined herself critically in the uniform a servant had brought her. Every student of banditry wore the same; a white shirt with too much sleeve to be practical, a lot of tight black stuff over the top, and a black coat with bits on the cuffs and bottom hem that flounced about. This was considered bare minimum, it seemed, and yet Wilhelmina had never seen so much lace in her life before. It hugged her skinny figure in a way that would have been flattering had she not already been at full capacity for flat.

She heard people coming up the stairs and jumped away from the mirror with a start as two servants carrying a heavy trunk into the room were followed by a short, squat girl with hair that didn't so much corkscrew as helter-skelter.

"Oh," she said, "hullo. Who're you? I mean, I suppose I should introduce myself first, shouldn't I? Papa says it's only right to start the conversation when other people might be unable, and more and more these days I'm inclined to agree, I've never yet met someone who introduced themselves before I did, I can't imagine why, I suppose it must be something to do with their upbringing." The girl stuck out a hand as she sucked in a breath. "Lady Arnaude le Tableux, Arnie to my friends and better-known acquaintances."

Some gears in the back of Wilhelmina's head turned as she repeated the name to herself. _Arnold Table_ , she thought, _and here's me, feeling sorry for myself._ "Wilhelmina Turnip."

Lady Arnaude le Tableux's eyes widened. "As in, Dick Turnip Turnip?"

"He was my dad," she said, "it's not that impressive, really. I never knew him."

"Blimey – I mean, sacre bleu! A long lost father, _and_ he's the most famous highwayman on the Disc! How _romantic_."

"Uh," said Wilhelmina, "if you say so."

" _And_ we're in the same dorm!" Lady Arnaude continued, as the rally of the conversation devolved from tennis to squash, "I was actually rather apprehensive about starting, y'see, since all the other gals I knew went to Quirm College for Young Ladies, but my brother's already in the Assassins' and Papa said he'd rather his two darlings have proper vocational educations than, y'know, _education_ educations, since what's the point of being able to name four different types of fruit in twenty different languages if you're in a pickle in the real world, and since the Bandits are the only Guild apart from Seamstresses who regularly allow women in, they say Miss Band was rather an anomaly you know, anyway I'd much rather be here, it's just so _thrilling,_ don't you think?"

"… Yes?"

"Oh, Wil!" Arnie squeezed Wilhelmina's shoulders as a genuine sunny smile broke out across her face. "I'm _so_ glad we're friends! Tell me, what are you looking forward to the most?"

It occurred to Wilhelmina that she had been so preoccupied with actually getting to the Guild that she didn't have the faintest clue what to expect now that she was there. "Dunno," she said, and realized maybe showing how clueless she was wouldn't be such a good idea. "All of it, really. What about you?"

"Oh! Don't tell anyone else, Wil, you absolutely must promise not to tell anyone else, but I've been _dying_ to learn how to ride. We get our own horses, I heard. Won't that be positively delightful?"

It's just a horse, thought Mina, but the thought stayed inside her head. "We have lots of them at home," she said, "not like the ones I saw here, though."

"Oh, really? What kind? I've always loved palominos, myself."

"Well, Ben the big carthorse was brown, but that might've been the dirt. We used them mainly for pulling stuff up to Lancre Town in the summer, since there's not enough flat ground to merit a plough."

This appeared to have broken something in Arnie. There was a good three seconds of silence, then she went: "oh! Down in your village, you mean? The common people?"

"Sure," said Wilhelmina, "whatever. So when does everyone else get here?"

"Over the next few days. There's about a dozen of us starting this year, I think."

By separating the wheat from the chaff, Wilhelmina managed to glean from Arnie that those who enrolled in the Bandits' Guild were the ones who, for some reason or another, turned down or had been turned down by assassins; they were the kids of merchants and therefore not quite part of society, they had a problem with killing, they were too stupid or fat or exuberant; not one of them sounded quite the calibre of Madame Dubal. This isn't the Guild it used to be, Wilhelmina thought, something's happened. I wonder if it's anything to do with whatever has people scared?

"What's the difference between highwaymen and bandits?" she asked Arnie when she stopped to breathe about half an hour later.

"You mean you don't know? Anyone who graduates is a bandit, although lots of us go on to do other things. A highwayperson is sort of like a title, I suppose. You only get to be one if you've had a really impressive exchange."

"Exchange meaning robbery."

"Yes. Although they don't call it that much, anymore. At least, I don't think so."

"Knock knock," said a third voice, and a boy with a face like a battlefield three days deep poked his maculated face around the door. Something about him made Mina reflexively think that there was a sign saying 'kick me' attached to his back, even though she could only see above the shoulder. "Um."

"Isn't this a girl's dormitory?" Wilhelmina asked, and Arnie shook her head.

"The Guild believes separation based on gender's a waste of time."

"Well, I suppose it'll happen whatever the sleeping arrangements are," said Wilhelmina, and Arnie blushed scarlet.

"Yes. Quite. New boy, this is Wil Turnip, and I'm Lady Arnaude le Tableux, Arnie to my friends and – "

"Who're you?" Wilhelmina asked, folding her arms.

"Um. Jimmy Spanner, miss."

"I'm not a miss," said Wilhelmina, "not to _you,_ anyway. What're you doing in the Bandits' Guild, Mr Spanner?"

"My mum wanted me to make something of herself," he explained, setting down his own trunk with arms like two tent poles. "I said to her, there's nothing wrong with making myself a milkman, but she wouldn't listen."

"I think you would make a wonderful milkman, Jimmy Spanner."

"Thanks, m'lady."

"Just Arnie, please."

The fourth and final bed in the dormitory stayed empty, and Wilhelmina spent the night listening to other people snoring and the distant gurgling of expensive plumbing that she still didn't think was a properly hygienic substitute for a small shed with a banana-shaped cutout in the door and a copy of the almanac on the hook. Lessons would start tomorrow, they said: the servants who brought up their food said they would eat in the Grand Hall with all the other bandits-in-training, then their teachers would come and collect them. Family were allowed to visit on the last weekend of every month, and they would be given an allowance to spend as they wish. Wilhelmina instantly decided to send it home, and hopefully it would reach Bad Ass in time for her mother to spend it on a stagecoach ride down for the first visiting day.

Wilhelmina missed Lancre. She missed the feeling of outside being only a very thin wall away, and her mattress stuffed with straw and the occasional mouse, and knowing the name of every single person within walking distance because there was less than a hundred of them, anyway. She missed the entire world being a stone's throw away.

But now, in this big extravagant palace of a school, the world was… well, the entire world. And, as scary as that was, the fear was already turning on its head into a quiet sense of thrill. She was the daughter of Dick Turnip, after all. It was practically required.


	4. Chapter 4

There are two types of horse people in the world.

The first is the type that works with them every day, shovels the apples and restocks the hay come rain, shine, snow or frogs. There were no false pretences about horses with these people; they knew them down to their well-worn bones, and respected and cared for them as one would a being of immense strength, speed and, of course, idiocy.

Then there were the people who gave their horses names like Midnight, or Shadow, and groomed them from time to time and kissed the tips of their noses and told themselves, deep down, that they and their horse were soulmates. As a matter of fact, this binary can be applied to any type of domestic animal, throughout the multiverse. On the planet Nib, the dominant species of multi-cellular organism calls their amoeba Moonchild, and their next door neighbour on the diamond formation they inhabit rolls their eyes, and continues to siphon microscopic faeces from their own steed.

Wilhelmina was neither of these people. She regarded her new horse with wariness and it blinked back at her, waiting to be named or, indeed, interacted with at any level.

In the stall next to hers, Arnie was fawning. "Aren't you the most beautiful thing, Twilight?" Wilhelmina heard, "we shall go for long canters in the sunset and I'll sneak you in sugar cubes when nobody is watching and when we can't sleep, because when I can't sleep you can't either and vice versa, I shall come down and read poetry to you and fall asleep at your side and see you in my dreams."

Wilhelmina folded her arms. "If you try and kick me," she told the horse, "I think they'll shoot you." It snickered softly. "It's not funny, horse. If you're nice to me, you'll… hell, this is pointless. You can't understand me anyway, can you, you weird animal?"

The horse nudged at the hand that was holding the apple, and Wilhelmina reluctantly unfolded her arms and held it out to be eaten.

"For the purposes of misdirection," she told it, "you're going to be called My Bicycle. Or Mybike, for short. That's non-negotiable, by the way." She picked up a piece of chalk and, with her tongue poking out between her teeth, wrote both the horse's name and her own on the slat mounted on the door of the stable. "Most people are using their allowances to pay the stable boys to look after their horses, Mybike, but I need to send money home to Mum. So expect to see a lot of me." She patted Mybike on the bit between her ears and peered over the wall of the stall at Arnie. "How's it going?"

There were tears in the lady's eyes. "She's _perfect_!"

As she received the full history of the brief meeting between Arnie and Twilight, Wilhelmina made a mental note to avoid asking her questions in future. It wasn't until one particular word jumped out of the monologue like a hare on performance-enhancing drugs that Wilhelmina found herself listening.

"Wait," she said, "did you just say there's an _assassin_ here?"

"Of course! We have to learn how to shoot a crossbow from someone, silly. And there's been a shortage of bandits willing to teach, so Lady Dubal's been outsourcing. But we don't get one of those lessons for _days,_ yet. We have basic escapology first. Shan't it be _fun?_ "

 _So this is how you learn to be a highwayman,_ thought Wilhelmina, _in a classroom._ It just didn't seem right, somehow. In Arnie's bedside cabinet, she kept little sachets of brown powder and white powder and crystal powder that, when they had hot water added to them, became milky cocoa that Wilhelmina had tried and judged to be not nearly as nice as what her mother made in a pot over the stove on Hogswatchnight. It felt like what the powder sachets tasted. Surely, it hadn't been like this in her father's day.

 _I have always thought,_ said the voice of Granny Weatherwax in her head, _that some things can't be learnt in classrooms._

But how could she explain _that_ to Arnie?

%

In her study, Lady Claudine Dubal put down her quill and stared thoughtfully at the closed door opposite her. The girl was an inconvenience, to say the least. She had thought that the mountains would keep the child of Dick Turnip trapped far away from here, but apparently destiny had decided otherwise.

 _Destiny._ Dubal didn't like it much, but it went hand in hand with the more romantic side of the job. Of course, the romantic side wasn't doing them much good these days, what with Vetinari's system. And then… and then there were the murders…

It _couldn't_ be him, surely. Everyone knew ghosts couldn't so much as pick up a crossbow, let alone fire it into a man's eye socket. But there were rumours all over the Sto Plains, and rumours would, invariably, give way to stories. Turnip was halfway to being a legend already, and the idea that he was carrying on after his death should more than ensure the other fifty percent.

Dubal drummed her fingernails on the desk. Of course, there was always the possibility that he hadn't died – the common people would love that. But she had seen his blood on the road, staining the chalk velvet red. You didn't get much more dead than a knife to the heart.

But why did it have to be the heart?! Why not the spleen, or one of the kidneys? A stab wound in the liver wasn't romantic at all. But _no,_ Turnip had to die as he had lived. Damn him.

The only way her Guild would survive is if they stamped out any idea of ghost stories and love poems, and turned it into the business that the city Guilds had managed to achieve so easily. And maybe the way to do that was to wait for this ghost to kill the wrong person. He wouldn't be a legend _then,_ there was no way even he could recover from that. Of course, the girl was a problem still, but Dubal could handle one arrogant child who still smelled vaguely of the countryside.

The Bandits' Guild needed to lose its glitter. And to do that, all she had to do was… wait.

%

Then, of course, there were the lessons themselves. It didn't help that Wilhelmina lacked an Education. The other students looked down on her regardless of the Turnip legacy, regardless of how she was actually half a hand taller than them.

 _I'll show them,_ she thought, staring at the manacles that trapped her wrists and ankles and the various interesting twisty bits of metal that could, said their teacher, be found in any gaol cell worth its salt. Surrounding her were the sounds of clinking metal and people hissing under their breath as another lockpick failed to do its job.

They were very large manacles. Capable of holding a grown man, the teacher had said. They were certainly very heavy on Wilhelmina's own scrawny wrists. She lifted her hands up to eye level and peered at them, then spat on one wrist and began to twist it around inside the shackle.

 _Nice and easy,_ she told herself, then put her arm down, braced her feet on either side of the shackle and pushed. It felt as though the bones of her hands were being condensed into a shape that hands should not be able to make, but she carried on nonetheless. If they finished early then they were allowed to leave, and if she left early she could get to the city by midday. Some of the other students had taken to hanging around the outgoing mail box here, and they all had a great deal more muscle than her. The post office in Ankh-Morpork was meant to be open again, anyway.

 _ThwupCLUNK,_ said the manacle as it clattered to the floor. Wilhelmina wrung her hand to get some feeling back into it, then started on the other one. Once she did that, she should be able to reach for the keys without difficulty.

To her left, Jimmy Spanner was nearly crying as he yanked at his bindings. He wasn't doing well in lessons at all, since like her he seemed to struggle with the theoretical side of it. Wilhelmina couldn't imagine a person more suitable to milkmanning than him. He was always awake before her and _hours_ before Arnie, and didn't seem to have a problem with it either. He _enjoyed_ getting things done so early. Because of this, Wilhelmina reckoned he was probably some kind of freak of nature.

The other wrist shackle came loose, and with her body mainly free Mina sprawled across the classroom floor with one of the suspiciously complicated pieces of metal and used it to fish the keys off of the table. She shuffled back and unlocked her manacles, stood up and walked to the front of the class, wherein she dropped the keys on the teacher's desk.

"Can I go now?" she asked. She could hear whispering behind her.

"But you used the keys!" the teacher exclaimed.

"You didn't say we couldn't."

"Well, I am now!"

"That's why I brought them up to the front," Wilhelmina explained in a voice that was far too young and innocent to be condescending, "so nobody could try it. But you said we could go when we were done, ma'am."

The teacher narrowed her eyes. "I have my eye on you, Miss Turnip."

"Yes, ma'am. Be worried if you didn't, ma'am."

"Get out of my sight."

"That's what I was trying to do, ma'am," Wilhelmina said, and made a run for it before she got a belting. Out of the main school building and down to the stables she went, where Mybike was waiting to take her to –

" _Oomph!_ " said the wall of black silk she had just collided with, and Mina staggered backwards. "In a hurry, are we?"

She looked up at the man who had collided with her. He couldn't have been much older than her, but he carried himself with a complete self-assertion. Then, of course, there was the solid black he was wearing. _Assassin._ "Yes, actually. Sir."

He looked her up and down. "Turnip," he said. "You've ruffled a lot of lacy feathers, Turnip."

"Sir?"

"Some have you down as a troublemaker."

"Couldn't say anything about that, sir," Wilhelmina replied, staring at the empty corridor behind the man. "Haven't broken any rules, sir." _Unlike some of my fellow pupils, who seem to think that trip wires over our dorm door are the pinnacle of comedy._ They had used wire stolen from a caretaker's shed – sharp, copper wire. Jimmy was still wearing bandages around his ankles, and the bastards had gotten away with it, too. No proof, they had said. Of course, the sort of crimes a bandit was expected to commit were the kind that could only be caught in the act of. Why would they set something up in advance, when they weren't even there to reap the results? No, it _must_ have been an accident.

"What are you doing out of lessons, Turnip?"

"Finished early, sir." She shook her sleeves and displayed the red marks around her wrists that had been made when she pulled her hands out of the shackles.

"Lockpicks take too much time, hm?"

"Something like that, sir."

The Assassin was smiling. It was a very sharp smile. "Well, then," he said, "I shall stop wasting it."

"Wasting what, sir?"

"Time, Turnip. It's precious, after all."

"Yes, sir."

"Go and saddle up then, Turnip. Ankh-Morpork's a good hour away, still."

Wilhelmina didn't need to be told twice. _How did he know I'm going to Ankh-Morpork?_ she thought. _I hadn't even told Arnie about the letters._ She glanced over her shoulder, but the Assassin was already gone. _Hmm._

She asked someone else to saddle up Mybike, and mounted him with extreme caution. They left the Guild at a slow walk, by which time Wilhelmina felt confident in the art of not falling off, and allowed the horse to pick up pace as they started down the road to the city. By the time the Hubwards Gate was in sight, she was overtaking all the other traffic and finding that it was actually quite enjoyable, even with one hand having to hold her hat down on her head to stop it from getting carried away. She slowed back down as she entered Ankh-Morpork itself, and the stench of the river and the countless people living around it hit her like an assassin. There was nothing to remind you that you had never been to a city before like going to a city for the first time.

There were stables beside the gate. Wilhelmina dismounted and gave her horse to the most suspicious-looking man to look after, along with half the money she had left – her reasoning was that nobody would be more likely to steal her horse than he was, so if she paid _him_ to look after it then nobody else would dare come near him. "There might be more if I come back and you're both still here," she told him, and he smiled a gold-toothed smile. The teeth were all different sizes, she noted, as though they had all come from different mouths.

"Can I take your name, miss? For the records."

Wilhelmina narrowed her eyes. The man looked as though he were allergic to records of any kind.

"Got to be official, miss. What with my lee-jit-im-ut business, like."

"Fine," said Wilhelmina. "Wilhelmina Turnip."

"I'll put you down as Wil, miss, on account of me being unable to spell that."

People gave her a wide berth as she walked into the city, the same way they did to the witches back home. It must have been the hat – hats were powerful, Wilhelmina had learnt. Possibly even more powerful than the people that wore them. And Mina's mother had always said she walked like a witch, anyway. Walked like the ground belonged to her. Now, she let a little bit of swagger creep into her walk, the same swagger that Dubal and the assassin had. But she also kept a tight hand on her money pouch, and the other ready to grab the dagger hidden in her sleeve. Not that she had been taught how to use it yet, of course. But she had a vague idea of which end you were supposed to stick in someone else.

People were giving her odd looks. They must have seen highwaymen before, surely, but what had one done to merit such attention? They seemed curious, and the back of Wilhelmina's neck prickled unpleasantly. She had inherited from her witch aunt a ship-compass-accurate sense of foreboding, and it was currently boding the fore more than she had ever felt it do before. This much fore hadn't even been boded when Widderthigh's cow had turned inside out, and that had taken a week to sort out.

It would have made more sense to see if the Guild had any records themselves and look through them instead of coming all the way here. But Wilhelmina did not trust Lady Dubal at all, and was certain that she would know what she was doing, whereas in Ankh-Morpork she could be doing _anything._ In fact, all-encompassing terms such as anything and everything seemed a little too narrow for Ankh-Morpork. The city necessitated the invention of a word with much lower standards.

The City Watch seemed as good a place as any to start. Highwaymen were criminals, after all, and they must have had some kind of run-in (if not run-after) with her father. There was a signpost that had "PSEUDOPOLIS YARD" with a Watch badge carved next to it pointing down a street, and Wilhelmina followed that.

The Watch building couldn't have been anything else, and when Wilhelmina went inside there was a troll at the desk. They had trolls back home, of course, but they didn't tend to wear hats that were slightly too small and therefore had to be kept on the head by means of a double-knotted piece of string. _Troll fingers are too heavy to do a bow like that,_ Wilhelmina thought, _someone has to do it for him. People don't exactly hate trolls up in the mountains, but they don't go out of their way to help them, either. Hmm._

"Excuse me?" she said, and the troll looked up.

"Can I help you?" he asked, "if dere is a man in custard-y dat you want out, der form is right dere."

"No," said Wilhelmina, "I was wondering if you had any records on someone I'm looking for."

The troll took a moment to process this. "Dey a criminal?" he asked.

"Sort of, yes."

"Dey dead?"

"Apparently." It was only then that Wilhelmina realised that, despite everyone talking about Dick Turnip in the past tense, there was no grave anywhere in the Guild.

"Den…" said the troll, the small shelf she assumed was its eyebrow lowered in concentration, "den dere might be somethin'. What's their name?"

"Dick Turnip," she said, and heard a sharp intake of breath behind her.

"Not _the_ Dick Turnip?" a voice around midriff-level asked, and she turned to behold what could, in the right light with the help of some mind-altering substances, be considered a man.

"I'm his daughter," Wilhelmina explained. "And you are… who, exactly?" She stopped herself from saying "what" only at the last possible moment.

"Corporal Nobby Nobbs, Miss Turnip. Can I get you a cup of tea? Lemme get you a cup of tea. Ho- _ho,_ " said Nobby, mainly to himself, "who'd've thunk it, eh? Who'd've bloody thunk it, Dick Turnip's lass turning up in the Yard?"

"You knew him?" Wilhelmina asked, following him into a poky kitchen. With the authority of a long-term and semi-permanent fixture, Nobby shooed out the handful of other Watchmen that were milling around.

"Knew _of_ him. Who din't, though?"

 _Me,_ thought Wilhelmina. "Do you know what happened to him?"

Nobby laughed. She was pretty sure it was a laugh, anyway. "We-e-ell," he said, "what _din't_ happen to him?"

"Mr Nobbs," Wilhelmina, "if you say the word "din't" one more time, I'm going to have to hit you very hard, and since I haven't been taught how to do that yet _anything_ might happen. Please. Just tell me what you know."

"Know? What _don't_ I –" Nobby began, and hastily cut himself off when he saw Wilhelmina's expression. "I mean… he was a legend, miss. Half the stuff might be miffik, so it may not be strictly true, so ter speak, but…"

Even in the unusual dialect of Nobby Nobbs, the story he told had a touch to it that made Wilhelmina shiver beneath her fancy clothes.

Before he became famous, Dick Turnip had just been another butcher in one of the roadside towns that littered the Sto Plains. When a town with so little in the first place burns down then its inhabitants have nothing to lose, so Turnip saw that he had everything to gain. Others would have stolen from barns, but he had grown up in one and knew that there was no point taking from people who barely had everything they needed, and the rich people were so heavily defended that they were not even an option… and then he heard about the bandits, pirates of the land. Within a year he had seen more money pass through his hands than the pub of his old town had earned in a lifetime. A highwayman didn't have the space to hoard, of course, so he spent it as quickly as he took it, in the towns of the Sto plains and in Ankh-Morpork and in Sto Lat and in the makeshift silk tent villages that merchants could build and destroy in little more than a day. He went from wearing burlap and a hood to fine silk and a velvet masks, and soon the Bandits' Guild realised that this was a man of a kin they had never before seen.

He was arrested three times, twice in Sto Lat and once in Genua, and they never managed to hold him for more than a week. Before Dick Turnip, bandits saw arrest as the end of a career, if not a death sentence. Now, the Guild had escapology on the curriculum. The entire idea of a highwayman had changed completely in the space of five years. Now, people didn't hate them. People _loved_ a couple of them. People were paying twice, thrice, four times the usual Guild rate to encounter one of the highwaypeople. And Dick Turnip… Dick Turnip was a legend. When Sto Lat tried to hang him, there was a crowd of thousands that cheered not when he stopped dancing, but when the rope snapped and he disappeared beneath the stage, never to be seen in the city again.

And then, a little after he must have gone to Lancre, he disappeared. And the Guild churned on, powered by the romance and mystery he had created, until it came under the iron grip of Lady Dubal.

"Turnip made it a good job for the posh folks," Nobby explained, "see? 'Cos they reckoned that nobody that successful could possibly be a humble cabbage farmer, 'e had to have an _ancestry._ So now's you got this mix of bandits who never train at the Guild and apply for a licence like the Thieves do, an academy that gives the assassins a run for their money, and the odd skollership. And you."

"And nobody knows what happened to him?"

Nobby shrugged, although his armour was so loose on him the movement was almost unnoticeable. "If 'e was alive, people'd know. Won't one to shy away from the public eye, was Dick Turnip."

"Right." Wilhelmina stood up, putting down her full cup of stone cold tea. "Thank you for telling me, corporal."

"So you're takin' on the family business, eh?" Nobby said, standing up and trotting after her to the door. Before that moment, Wilhelmina had thought only things with four legs could trot, but now she could see she was mistaken.

"Yes. I don't know," she said, "everyone seems to think so." And she had certainly wanted to do it, hadn't she? To escape Bad Ass and do something more exciting?

 _Yes,_ said a voice in the back of her head, _but not like this._

"Well, there's gonna be a lot of people happy to see a Turnip back on the roads, miss."

 _Yes, and this one hasn't fallen off the back of a farmer's wagon, either._ Wilhelmina adjusted the tilt of her hat as Nobby opened the door for her with the same expression of utter reverence he had had on his face since she had told him her name. Then she walked into the side of a solid black carriage.

A dull-looking man leaned out of the window as Wilhelmina staggered back. "Ah," he said, "Miss Turnip. My name is Drumknott." She heard a hiss behind her. "The Patrician would like to speak to you."


	5. Chapter 5

Wilhelmina learned from Drumknott that she was supposed to take her tricorn hat off when inside. Having grown up with witches this little bit of etiquette had not occurred to her, and as she sat in the little ante-room she twirled it between her fingers as she listened to the ticking of the clock.

 _Tick, tick, tick, tick... tick, ticktick, tick, tick tick tick…_

 _Tick._

She stopped listening. The irregularity was setting her teeth on edge. They had never had a clock back home, but the Guild was full of them – grandfather clocks and cuckoo clocks and pocket watches swinging on silver chains from the buttonholes of people who could afford to bind time in gears and hands.

What had the Patrician to do with Turnip? Nobby hadn't mentioned anything. But the _Guild,_ even if it was out of his city limits, was still under his rule. So it would seem more likely that this was to do with whatever it was Granny thought had the Guild on edge instead of Dick Turnip – but that didn't explain why he would want to talk to _her._

The door opened. Wilhelmina inhaled, set her hat down so that she wouldn't fiddle with it in the meeting, and walked inside.

The Patrician's office was, although elegant, not quite as decadent as she had been expecting. She didn't even notice the figure sat at the desk until it said her name.

"Miss Turnip," said Lord Vetinari, without looking up. "You've caused ripples."

He wore black. Not the rich, expensive black of Assassins and highwaymen, but the muted anti-colour that was more like what the witches tended to prefer, although theirs was achieved by a great deal of washing and Mina suspected that Vetinari's clothes were probably burned after their first wear. Wilhelmina couldn't help but trust a person dressed in a black like that, but she kept her mouth shut anyway. She had heard a lot about Vetinari; he used to be an Assassin himself, according to Arnie. And he had both the Commander of the Watch and the man who ran half the public services in the city under his thumb, not to mention the Heads of all the Guilds. And according to her friend, the only person harder to kill was the Hogfather himself. A person such as that, Wilhelmina thought fervently, was someone to keep no more or no less than at arm's length away.

"Sir?" she said, staring straight ahead.

Vetinari stood up. He was almost a foot taller than her and very thin, with an ascetic sort of face. "That your name would precede you was indubitable," he said, "and yet you seem to be catching up to it already. Your escapology teacher is not amused by your performance this morning." He smiled widely at her surprised expression, which was not in the least reassuring. "The clacks, Miss Turnip. I have friends in your Guild."

"The Assassin," she said, and immediately cursed herself for thinking out loud.

"Slipsmith? No, not him. But the Lady Dubal is finding you something of a struggle." Vetinari leant lightly on a slender black cane as he walked, the silver ferrule making a _tip tip_ noise on the floor far more regularly than any clock. "And she has more than enough to worry about already, so she tells me."

"I wouldn't know about that, sir," Wilhelmina replied, staring down a blank patch on the wall in front of her.

"I would not expect you to, Miss Turnip. How do you find the Guild?"

"Lots of staircases, sir."

"And your classmates?" Vetinari asked, and did not look surprised when she faltered. "And what is it they do to you?"

Wilhelmina clenched her fists. "Nothing I can prove," she said. And then – "it's not _fair!_ It's not my fault I've got a root vegetable for a surname! And I can't even tell when I'm doing something _wrong,_ because nobody'll tell me the rules until after I've broken them, and Jimmy got hurt because of them trying to get at me, and the teachers all think I'm some Ramtops peasant girl who got lucky, and the worst part is they're _right!_ " She took a deep breath, and added, "sir."

Vetinari reached the window and stopped, staring out of it across the ramshackle rooftops of Ankh-Morpork. In the distance, a smudge on the horizon could, possibly, be mistaken for her Guild. "Luck, Miss Turnip," he said, "is by nature unreliable. Legacy, however, is not. I assume Corporal Nobbs has filled you in on your family history."

This time, Wilhelmina didn't even look slightly surprised. "Yes, sir."

"Did you know your father was not a member of the Guild?"

"No, sir."

"And yet he was one of the few men who paid his taxes," Vetinari said under his breath. "He began with a province that did not include roads under the jurisdiction of Ankh-Morpork, and therefore the Bandits' Guild, and by the time he expanded nobody could argue, by dint of nobody being able to find him."

"Sir?"

"Madame Dubal has, no doubt, told you that you are a legacy of the Guild. This is a lie."

"Yessir."

"Unfortunately for the running of my city," said Vetinari, "not everything can be confined to a Guild. It is in the unknown and undefined where legends are born and grown. And people need the… vividity of legends as a focal point for their belief. Do you believe in anything, Miss Turnip?"

Mina thought about it. "I don't think so, sir."

"Good." Vetinari smiled, as suddenly and without warning as a viper strike in long, dead grass. "Very good. Neither did your father. Legends cannot believe. They can only be believed _in._ A god cannot have faith in anything but themselves. A certain level of cynicism is required in order to create hope for others."

"Speaking from experience, sir?" Mina asked, before she could stop herself.

"I could not possibly comment. You are not a legacy, Miss Turnip. Not as long as you are being schooled in becoming one, at any rate. Be critical of your surroundings."

 _That_ sounded familiar. "Have you ever met Mistress Weatherwax, sir?" Mina asked, and Vetinari smiled, much more faintly this time.

"I have certainly heard of her. But do not let me keep you," said Vetinari, and at a louche gesture of his hand the door was opened by Drumknott. A small, detached part of Mina's brain wondered how the clerk had been alerted to his cue; was there some sort of spyhole into the Patrician's office, perhaps? Or was there a secret button Vetinari had pressed without her noticing?

Mina's legs decided to stand up and carry her to the door before she could have any say in the matter. But other parts of her body were more faithful, and her tongue leapt into action. "What do you know about the ghost, my lord?" she asked, feeling a funny drumming feeling in her chest. "That's why you called me here, isn't it? Not because of my dad, or Madam Dubal's concerns, but the ghost. That's why I got the letter now, too. People think it's Di – that it's my dad. And nobody knows what to do. Ghosts aren't supposed to kill people, and neither are highwaymen. Not if they can make a profit out of it first."

"Very astute, Miss Turnip."

Mina took a deep breath, pictured Granny Weatherwax at her most Weatherwaxish, and opened her mouth. _"What do you know?"_ she repeated. "And don't patronise me."

There was a tinkling of glass behind her. Drumknott had knocked over his inkwell. Suddenly the air stopped moving, and the atmospheric sounds of the city outside vanished. Mina became incredibly aware of her most likely immediate future. There wasn't a lot of it.

There was a two-second pause that lasted half an hour, and then Vetinari nodded, as slow as the building of Sto Lat. "That spectral bullets do not leave holes," he said. "As any half-decent Assassin can tell you. I have encountered a great many ghosts in a long and eventful life, and I know a fraud when I see one. Good day to you, Wilhelmina. Do try not to get yourself killed, won't you? It would be a shame to lose such… promise."

Mina and Drumknott exhaled in unison. The clerk practically dragged her out of the room and then the palace, with her having to half-run to keep up. "He liked you, you know," Drumknott said, leading her to a courtyard where Mybike was waiting.

"How can you tell?"

"Because he didn't try anything creative," Drumknott replied, holding the reigns as she climbed on. "A good thing, too. We only had the floorboards cleaned last week."

 **A/N if this reads as a bit disjointed, it's because the second half was written several months after the first (about ten minutes ago, while watching Rocky Horror in the middle of the night). Vetinari dialogue is HARD, and I am not nearly smart enough to do him justice. God, I love Havelock Vetinari so much. What a babe. What a Machiavellian, Thud-playing, acerbic babe.**


End file.
